


Change of Plans

by Reynier



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Weird Time Shit, gawain goes on a quest!, just a LOT of diu krone references, oh gawain kicks a talking fox so sort of warning for animal cruelty, uhhhh this is just. weirdly based off of diu krone for some reason???????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29482863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/pseuds/Reynier
Summary: "When Gawain had been a god for some time he made provisions."
Relationships: Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Change of Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Round Table 2: The Sequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22102807) by [secace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace). 



> uhhhhhhhhhhhh lou i love you SO so much so true bestie uhhhhh jopping i can tremember any more topical tumblr references. anyway this is like a lot of diu krone stuff but i THINK the only reference you will need explained if you havent read it is that amurfina fucking sucks. thats it.

When Gawain had been a god for some time he made provisions. 

On a rainy Sunday when Lancelot was occupied with a hike, he gave the flat a quick survey to make sure his tidiness could not be criticized, wrote a quick note to the effect that should he not return he did love Lancelot very much, withdrew a sword that had been gathering dust at the back of a closet, and headed out the door. Outside, rain drizzled down, dusting his hair with a faint veil of water and splashing onto his shoes. The streets were as empty as they ever got in central London, and those who were out hurried by, their faces hidden in coat collars or tucked away behind umbrellas. No one was looking at him— no one noticed the faint smell like dry fields after a storm, the way the shoots between cracks in the pavement got a little greener as he walked by, nor even the fact that he had a sword hanging from one hip. 

Heads did turn in the tube station as he bounded down the stairs with a light clattering noise, but then they saw the way the rain haloed him slightly, as though disrupted by a magnetic field, and they let him pass. Security would not have been as obliging, but he didn’t need to go through the turnstiles. He swung a left just before and opened a door that had not been there a moment prior. 

The air beyond was cool and musty, as though no one had been here in a while, which was the case. Gawain himself had never been here specifically, but he had seen the door before. He could see doors lots of places. 

Behind him, footsteps approached, and a voice said, “Hey, you’re not supposed to— where did that door come from—?”

He turned. A bewildered security guard blinked at him. “Hi,” said Gawain, “I’ll be out of your hair in just a second.”

“What do you— wait a second, aren’t you that— that knight?”

“Which one?”

“The— the one my wife has a crush on.”

“Oh!” Gawain thought about it. “Yes. Give her my love. Ciao!” And with that he blew him a kiss and pulled the door closed in front of him.

He walked for some time. The damp cement hallway stretched on, and if anyone had been walking alongside him they would have wondered how it was lit, for there were no lamps or windows. Eventually mist trickled up from the floor, thicker and thicker as he walked on, and the cement beneath his shoes turned to gravel and then to grass. The mist was all around him now, so thick he couldn’t barely see his own hand in front of him, and the sound of water running filled the air. Somewhere birds called. 

At length he felt he had reached a point of departure and, without reaching out to make sure he was not about to walk into a wall, he took a deep breath and turned abruptly to his right. The mist gave way in front of him and he strode a few paces before stopping to regain his bearings. 

“Funny to see you here, Mister God,” said a voice several feet below him. 

He looked down. “Hello, shitface. Fuck off.”

“Mmm, shan’t,” said the fox, twisting around one of Gawain’s legs like a particularly smarmy cat. “Fuck me off yourself.”

Gawain had never played football in his youth. He had played tennis and lacrosse, and he had ridden horses, but no one had ever trained him in the art of a punt. Even a professional coach, however, would have been impressed with the mechanical power in his leg as his foot connected solidly with Renard, sending him flying off into the mist with a meaty _thwack_ and a yowl. 

“Walk it off!” he yelled after him. “You discount wolverine.”

He could hear curses being muttered at him from some distance away and ignored them in favour of surveying his surroundings. The mist had cleared slightly here, and trees were just visible. The faint outlines of bluebells and purple clover bobbed above the grass. The air smelled fresh in the way it never did in the modern world. 

Ahead of him, the grass stretched on, with no sign of a trail. He picked a direction that he thought was perpendicular to the path he had been walking before and set off. At his side, the weight of the sword felt unusual. His gait was off kilter, he could feel it; it had been a very long time since he had worn a sword. Longer, too, since it had been this particular sword. Multiple times he noticed his hand drifting absently to the hilt, fingers twitching as though to draw it. He didn’t. 

It could have been minutes that he was walking, or hours, or possibly a very patchy sort of day, but eventually the mist cleared in full and he emerged from the light forest onto a wide plain. A lake glittered before him. Gawain grinned. “Still got it,” he said to Renard, who wasn’t visible but was certainly lurking nearby. “I think this is what Lancelot would call a speedrun.”

By the time he got to the shore the ferry had arrived for him, or at least something that might be termed a ferry if you applied the word only in the sense of a thing that ferried. It looked like a sort of grassy island knoll, if grassy island knolls typically travelled all the way to the shore. “Hey, sexy,” said Gawain, because it gave him a little frisson of pretentious irony to bring modernity into this immobile place. “You gave me a ride last time and you’ll be thrilled to know I upgraded.”

The travelling island did not respond. It was not sentient, not really, just like the sword at his hip was not sentient, but lots of things could judge your chivalric career without being properly alive. He took a confident step onto it and waited. 

The ride across the lake didn’t take long, not compared to the walk through the forest, and when he reached the shore the castle was waiting for him. He grinned up at it. It did have a very amusing name. 

A minute or so passed from him ringing the bell before a shutter on the gate swung open. “Hello and welcome to the Castle of Maidens,” a young woman said monotonically. “How can I— oh my God. Hi. Hi!”

“Hi!” said Gawain. “Can I talk to your boss? Lady Levenet?”

“Are you really Sir Gawain? You look _exactly_ like Sir Gawain. But I know he has an identical doppelganger.”

“Not any more,” said Gawain, who had made sure his doppelganger had gotten murdered fifteen centuries before. “But I am Sir Gawain! It’s nice to meet you.”

She beamed at him. “This is _so_ exciting. I am such a huge fan of your quests. Is it true you met Ysabele of Endi?”

“Thank you, that’s—” Gawain stopped. Blinked. “Uh, Ysabele? Yeah.”

“That’s— wow. Just wow. And Guinloie of Granlande?”

“I certainly met them both,” he said carefully. “Both times it was on quests—”

On the other side of the gate he heard rattling as she fiddled with the lock, still interrogating him. “What about the Pulzella Gaia? I’ve read _so_ much about her.”

“That seems like a weirdly deep cut,” said Gawain, tilting his head. “But yes, uh, I have met them all.” More than met, he thought to himself. Not the sort of thing you shared in the Castle of Maidens, probably.

“Wow. Wow!” The door swung open and she waved her arms to usher him in. “That’s so cool! You’re so cool! Who was it you wanted to see?”

“Uh, Levenet?” It had been over a thousand years. She was probably still doing fine; time was like that here. “And thank you, I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“I appreciate your— wow! I’m just so honoured to meet you!” She held out her hand and Gawain almost shook it before remembering that that was not how they did things here. He took it and brushed a kiss to her knuckles. Then she withdrew and strode off down the hall, waving her hands to indicate he should follow. “My name is Telenegaz! I’m sure Lady Levenet will be thrilled you’ve come back.”

_Come back._ Well, that was what it was, really, but it felt like he was arriving for the first time. If he concentrated he could just remember the first time he had been here— remember in that blurry sort of way when you weren’t sure whether you really remembered or if you had constructed a memory to fill in the blanks where you knew recollection must live. The Castle of the Maidens, the court of Lady Fortune, the haunted forest— even by Gawain’s standards of what felt real, they were suspect. 

But Levenet was real, he knew that as soon as he saw her again in the room to which Telenegaz led him. He had come to the Castle of the Maidens, a very long time ago when he had been running from the fading trails of Amurfina’s spells, fog in his brain and on his tongue, and she had pulled his words out of him and dangled them before his clouded eyes until the world was a little clearer and Sir Gawain was a better thing to be. She had never met a knight before. She had kissed him, a lot, plainly stating she was uninterested in anything further, and she had asked him if he would choose to stay and marry her. Even now he remembered how she had emphasized the word _choose._ It had been on his mind when he met Ragnelle, years later.

“Sir Gawain,” she said now, surprise glinting in her eyes and a smile on her lips. She extended her hand for him to kiss and he obliged her. “I truly thought I would never see you again. How are Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere?”

With a start he realised she did not know that the rest of the world had passed her by. Something very odd had happened in Logres, quite a long time ago, and in certain parts of Logres quite a long time ago was still happening now. Sir Lancelot was dead. Queen Guinevere was not, so all in all Gawain reasoned one third immortality rate was pretty decent considering generally the immortality rate of a given population was zero. He sat down on the chair she offered him and favoured her with a bright smile. “Good! Very good. Lancelot and I are married, actually.”

“Oh! Congratulations!” She frowned. “You can do that now?”

Both of his lifetimes flashed before his eyes. “Uh, yes, recent— recent papal decree. Actually, I— that’s why I’m here.”

“I’m very happy for you and also very confused. Someone should have told me about this, all the maidens want to marry one another and I’ve had to tell them it just isn’t done.”

“Uh— uhuh?” said Gawain, much more important mission sidetracked. He stared at Levenet in fascination. Her pretty face was flushed with guilt. “Really?”

She nodded frantically. “Oh, dear. Does this mean homoerotic intercourse counts as sex now? And they’ve been having it all premaritally? Oh, I’ve been advising them so badly. Oh dear.”

“I—” began Gawain, and then stopped. “Were you— under the impression— that it’s not sexual to eat another woman out or blow her or whatever? And this place is still called the Castle of the Maidens?”

“Well, _I’m_ not doing anything of the sort,” said Levenet, blushing. “And not everyone is. Just, you know, some people. Uh. I told them it was alright.”

“It is alright! It’s definitely alright. Hm. You may want to— rebrand. Castle of the Lesbians?”

“We aren’t even Greek,” she said doubtfully.

Privately, Gawain was impressed she knew that Greece existed. This place seemed so far from the rest of the world. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Just let them get married and have them promise not to fuck premaritally again. It shouldn’t be hard, since they’ll be married.”

“Ah, it’ll be okay?”

“Totally fine. All forgiven in the eyes of God.” A god, at least. “Ah— actually, I came here to offer you a trade.”

“Oh! What manner of trade?”

He leaned to the side and drew the sword from its scabbard for the first time. The blade, at least, was still pristinely polished. The museum had taken good care of it. Nostalgically, he ran one finger down until he reached the hilt where two rings glittered, inlaid in gold. He could feel the tip of the blade wavering every so slightly towards Levenet and he gave it a stern glance. It stopped. “This is the sword with two rings,” he announced. 

“It sure is a sword,” she agreed, “and it has two rings.”

“If a knight, which I believe will extend nowadays to pretty much anyone, picks it up, and they’re, like, not as cool as me, it’ll immediately attack and stab them to death.”

“Uh,” said Levenet. “Right. I want this because…?”

“It’s a collector’s item! You can trade it for a chessboard or a princess or something. I don’t know, it has clout.” He paused under her dubious look. “It was the coolest thing I owned. And I really need your help.”

“It does sound pretty cool. And I love shiny things. What do you need from me?”

A thousand five hundred years ago she had offered him a choice. Gawain still remembered it, remembered the look in her eyes as she had kissed Lady Fortune’s pawn and liked it, wanted more, more in the way that a friend was more. Nothing much happened in the Castle of the Maidens. Sir Gawain had happened, though. 

_I want to make you happy,_ she had said. Her hair had been strewn over the pillow and her lips flushed and red. _You spent a week with me when you didn’t have to. I want to give you something. You can choose to marry me, or—_

The sword glinted in the sunlight, just the same as it had over a millenia ago. He laid it on the bed, swatched in protective fabric, with a strict warning about its violent tendencies. He took his prize in a thin glass vial. He gave her a kiss, long and slow, and then he left. 

When he had crossed back over the lake again and strode into the forest, Renard reappeared. He didn’t say anything, which was suspicious, and he also didn’t try to enact any Schemes, which was even more so. By the time Gawain had made it back to the mist-coated path back to London, his patience had run out. “Alright, asshole,” he said, as he stomped across the wet grass, carefully cradling the vial in his hands. “What’s your game? Why are you looking all smug?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing…” Renard’s voice, Gawain reflected, was the personification of a wheedle. 

“Why aren’t you trying to take this from me?”

“Mmmm… well, it would be redundant on me, you see. I’ve lasted this long, haven’t I? Itty bitty fox like me?”

Gawain’s mouth twitched and he resisted the urge to throttle the creature to death. “Yeah, but I know you. You would take it just to fuck me over.”

He got a _look_ in return for that, like a leer cranked up to eleven and full of sharp, sharp teeth. “Right, right. I want the worst for you, of course, Mister Gawain. Which is why I’m letting you carry on your merry way with your merry little homosexual tasks.”

“Uh— have you—” Gawain blinked. “Have you picked up _homophobia?_ ”

“Just recently. I’m experimenting, you see.”

Gawain glared and was about to make a witty remark when the first half of Renard’s comment caught up with him. “Hold on. What do you mean, you furry little shit?”

“Ahaha,” said Renard, as though it was a word. Then he bolted, a streak of orange disappearing into the mist ahead. 

Gawain, his heart suddenly pounding, squinted after him. It was a long road home, and Renard would not be caught if he didn’t want to be. He could squeeze his way out of anything. Bastard. 

And so, without a hint of self-awareness, Gawain continued the long trek home. 

Lancelot was sitting in the living room when he finally got back, nominally sketching but more accurately watching the rain trickle down the window pane with a peaceable smile on his face. He glanced up when Gawain entered, gave him a once-over, and said, “Why do you look like you tried to decompose in a damp forest?”

“It was probably the damp forest that I almost decomposed in,” said Gawain, grinning. Renard’s words had left him deeply unsettled and in that moment, the image of Lancelot silhouetted by the cloudy light, his black hair damp from a shower and slicked back, wearing a comedically expensive ugly knit sweater Gawain had gotten him as a joke, was the most beautiful sight in the world. Gawain crossed the room without even taking off his shoes, ignored the remonishing frown Lancelot gave him for that, and leaned over the back of the couch to press a kiss to his cheekbone. 

“You’re being weird.” Lancelot squirmed in his seat and set the sketchbook down beside him. “What forest exactly was it in which you were so set to decompose?”

“I,” said Gawain, opting to cut to the chase instead of admitting he didn’t know the name of the forest, “have gone on a quest.”

“Oh! It’s been a while. Was it a sexy and adventurous quest?” Lancelot paused and peered at him more eagerly. “Did you get to violently maim and kill?”

Gawain flung himself over the back of the couch, taking care not to crush the vial, and sagged against Lancelot’s side. “No violent maiming or killing this time.”

“What a tragedy...”

“Chin up, sugar,” said Gawain, giving him a cheeky grin, “you know I wouldn’t violently maim and kill without you there. Anyway, I’ve got— something I should tell you about.”

The serious note in his voice wiped the laughter off Lancelot’s face. “Yeah?”

 _I want the worst for you, Mister Gawain._ “Well— you know how Guinevere— didn’t die? The first time?”

Lancelot nodded. “Because of the spring goddess thing.”

“Ah, yes, the— the spring deity thing does indeed grant immortality,” Gawain allowed. He felt tense and anxious in a way he never did around Lancelot. “But she got that after she had already been alive for too long. Alive and _young_ for too long. Because— I gave her something someone had given me on a quest, once. I didn’t know if she would ever use it. But she did.” Wordlessly, he passed the vial to Lancelot, who took it with careful concern. Gawain gestured at it and tried to find his words again. “I— don’t intend to stay in this, uh, theological position for forever,” he managed. 

Seeing his difficulties, Lancelot passed the vial to his other hand and traced the back of Gawain’s wrist with his thumb. “You want to hand it off to Clarissant, right?”

“Right. But— well— plans don’t always work out, is the thing.”

“Mhm.”

The rain drummed against the window. Gawain, ever the talker, the looker, his hands and eyes and mouth faster than anything else, found he could not meet Lancelot’s gaze. “Well,” he said, his voice very small, “If plans change, I wanted— to be sure you could keep pace, as it were.”

“Oh, Gawain…” His voice sounded gentle, so very gentle, and all Gawain could think about was Renard’s implication that he was digging his own grave. 

“Because eternity— as a god— doesn’t sound all that appealing, to be frank. I mean, if you’re not there.”

Finally, with a herculean effort, he forced his head around to look at Lancelot. He was smiling, ever so slightly, and there were tears in his eyes, and he hadn’t let go of Gawain’s hand. “That’s very sweet of you,” he said. 

“Eh— sweet?”

“Yes! It’s very sweet of you. You look very worried. Why are you very worried?”

“Renard— said I was causing my own destruction or something,” Gawain said meekly. 

“Oh! Renard is a little bastard.” Lancelot gave him another smile, wider this time. “He certainly made you worry a lot. But I’m not Renard.”

“No,” agreed Gawain, “and I’m very glad of that. I would never sit with Renard on a couch. I would never give Renard a potion of immortality. I would also never do knifeplay with Renard.”

He got a splutter of laughter in return for that. “I— I take back all the nice things I was going to say to you.”

“Yeah? What nice things?”

“Oh,” said Lancelot carelessly, tilting his head in the way he did when he knew he was being very coy and it was very amusing to him. “About how I’d happily live a lifetime with you and grow old and die again, but I would also happily live forever with you. About how options are good, just in case things happen unexpectedly. About how I love you— more than I can say, and I want to sit here and hold you and make you drink this awfully bitter tea I made half an hour ago and put on something stupid on the television. But if _Renard_ is getting the couch, the immortality, _and_ the knifeplay…”

“Yeah?”

Lancelot winked. “Plans change.”

**Author's Note:**

> lou you are the best thank you for letting me play in your sandbox or, as aba would say, engage in intertextual poaching


End file.
